by Sax Rohmer
Four magnificent wrought-iron candelabra, each supporting six red candles, gave light, and a fine Persian carpet was spread before a sort of dais upon which was set a carven ebony chair resembling a throne. Dr. Fu-Manchu, yellow robed, the mandarin’s cap upon his head, sat there—his long ivory hands gripping the arms of the chair, his face, immobile, his eyes like polished jade.
Standing before him, one foot resting on the dais, was a defiant figure: a man wearing evening dress, a man whose straight black hair and black moustache, his pose, must have revealed his identity to almost anyone in the civilised world.
It was Rudolf Adlon!
* * *
There had been silence as we had crept along the felt-padded floor behind the tapestry; a false step would have betrayed us. This silence remained unbroken, but the clash of those two imperious characters stirred my spirit as no rhetoric could have stirred me—and my conception of the destiny of the world became changed…
Then Adlon spoke. He spoke in German. Although my Italian is negligible I have a fair knowledge of German. Therefore, I could follow the conversation.
“I have been tricked, trapped, drugged!” The suppressed violence in the orator’s voice startled me. “I find myself here—I realise now that I am not dreaming—and I have listened (patiently, I think) to perhaps the most preposterous statements which any man has ever made. I have one thing to say, and one only: Instantly”—he beat a clenched fist into his palm—“I demand to be set free! Instantly! And I warn you—I will not temporise—that for this outrage you shall suffer!” He glanced about him swiftly, and as his face which I had always thought to lack natural beauty was turned in my direction, something in those blazing eyes, in the defiant set of his chin, won an admiration which I believed I could never have felt for him.
But Dr. Fu-Manchu did not move. He might have been not a man, but a graven image. Then he spoke in German. I had not heard that language spoken so perfectly otherwise than by a native of Germany.
“Excellency is naturally annoyed. I have sought a personal interview for one reason only. I could have removed you from office and from life without so much formality. I wished to see you, to talk to you. I believe that as one used to giving but not to receiving orders, the instructions of the Council of Seven of the Si-Fan might have seemed to be inacceptable.”
“Inacceptable?” Rudolf Adlon bent forward threateningly. “Inacceptable! You fool! The Si-Fan! I have had more than enough of this nonsense! My time is too valuable to be wasted upon Chinese conjurers. Let this farce end or I shall be reduced to the extremity of a personal attack.”
Fists clenched, nostrils dilated, he seemed about to spring upon that impassive figure enthroned in the ebony chair. Knowing from my own experience what he must be suffering at this moment, of humiliation, ignorance of his whereabouts, a bewilderment complete as that which belongs to an evil dream, I thought that Rudolf Adlon was a very splendid figure.
And in that moment I understood why a great, intellectual nation had accepted him as its leader. Whatever his failings, this man was fearless.
But Dr. Fu-Manchu never stirred. The twenty-four red candles burned steadily. There was no breath of air in that decaying, deadly room. And the gaze of those still eyes checked the chancellor.
“Dictators”—the guttural voice compassed that germanic word perfectly—“hitherto have served their appointed purpose. Their schemes of expansion I have been called upon to check. The Si-Fan has intervened in Abyssinia. We are now turning our attention to Morocco and Syria. China, my China, can take care of herself. She will always absorb the fools who intrude upon her surface as the pitcher plant absorbs flies. To some small extent I have forwarded this process.”
And Rudolf Adlon remained silent.
“I opened the floodgates of the Yellow River”—that note of exultation, of fanaticism came now into the strange voice. “I called upon those elemental spirits in whom you do not believe to aid me. The children of China do not desire war. They are content to live on their peaceful rivers, in their rice fields, in those white valleys where the opium poppy grows. They are content to die… The people of your country do not desire war—”
And Adlon still remained silent, enthralled against his will…
“My agents inform me that a great majority desires peace. There are no more than twelve men living today who can cause war. You are one of them. Your ideals cross mine. You would dispense with Christ, with Mohammed, with Buddha, with Moses. But not one of these ancient trees shall be destroyed. They have a purpose: they are of use—to me. You have been ordered by the Council of Seven not to meet Pietro Monaghani—yet you are here!”
Some spiritual battle the dictator was fighting—a battle which I had fought and lost against the power in those wonderful, evil eyes…
“I forbid this meeting. I speak for the Council of which I am the president. A European conflict would be inimical to my plans. If any radical change take place in the world’s map, my own draughtsmen will make it.”
Adlon had won that inner conflict. In one bound he was upon the dais, looking down quiveringly upon the seated figure.
“I give you the time in which I can count ten! We are man to man. You are mad and I am sane. But I warn you—I am the stronger.”
I was so tensed up, so fired to action, that I suppose some movement on my part warned Nayland Smith, for he set a sudden grip upon my wrist which made me wince: it brought me to my senses. I think I had contemplated tearing a way through the tapestry to take my place beside Rudolf Adlon.
“From several loopholes,” Dr. Fu-Manchu continued, his voice now soft and sibilant, “you are covered by my servants. I have explained to you patiently and at some length that I could have brought about your assassination twenty times within the past three months. Because I recognise in your character much which is admirable I have adopted those means which have brought us face to face. You have received the final notice of the Council; you have one hour in which to choose. Leave Venice tonight within that hour and I guarantee your safety. Refuse, and the world will know you no more…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE LOTUS FLOOR
Nayland Smith was urging me back in the direction we had come. Having passed the door which we softly opened and closed:
“Why this way?” I whispered.
“You heard Fu-Manchu’s words. He was covered by his servants from several loopholes—”
“Probably a lie—he has nerves of steel.”
“That he has nerves of steel, I agree, Kerrigan, but I have never known him to lie. No, this is our way.”
We groped back along those dimly lighted passages until we came to the point at which of two ways we had selected that to the right. We now tried the left. And dimly in the darkness, for there was no light here, I saw a flight of wooden steps. Smith leading, we mounted to the top. Another door was there on the landing and it was ajar. Light shone through the opening.
“I expect this is the way my jailer came,” whispered Smith.
Beyond, as we gently pushed the door open, was a narrow lobby. Complete silence reigned… But at the very moment of our entrance this silence was interrupted.
Unmistakable sounds of approaching footsteps came from beyond a curtained opening. The footsteps ceased. There came a faint shuffling, and then—unmistakably again—the sound of someone retreating.
“Run for it!” Smith snapped, “or we are trapped!”
Dashing blindly across, I pulled up sharply on the threshold of a room. It was, I think, a horribly familiar perfume which checked me—that of hawthorn blossom! I clutched at Nayland Smith, staring, staring at what I saw…
It was the room with the lotus floor! We had entered it from the other side, and at that door through which I had stepped into oblivion, Ardatha stood, her eyes widely open, her face pale!
“Mercy of God!” she said, “but how did you get here? Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
No word came from Nayland Smith. Fo
r a moment I could hear his hard breathing, then:
“Go round it, Kerrigan,” he said. “Stick to the black border. Don’t be afraid, Ardatha, you had nothing to do with this.”
As I reached the other side of the room and stood beside her:
“Ardatha!” I threw my arm about her shoulders. “Come with me! I can’t bear it!”
“No!” She freed herself, her face remained very pale. “Not yet!”
“Go ahead, Kerrigan.” Smith was making his way around the room. “Leave Ardatha to me; she’s in safe hands.”
With one last look into the amethyst eyes, I hurried on—but at the top of the steps which led to the wine cellar paused, stepped back and:
“It’s unnecessary to go the whole way,” I said. “The door of the Palazzo Mori is not locked. For God’s sake, don’t linger, Smith.”
He was standing looking down at her; she made no attempt to retreat…
My flashlamp had gone the way of my automatic, but a box of matches for some obscure reason had been left in my pocket. With the aid of these I groped my way through to that noisome passage which led to the old palace. Along I went, moving very slowly and working my way match by match. I wondered why Smith delayed, what he had in mind. Some quibble of conscience, I thought, for clearly it was his duty to arrest Ardatha.
My plan was to learn if the exit by way of the water were still practicable. I knew it must be very late, and I wondered if it would be possible to attract the attention of a passing gondolier. Otherwise we should have to swim for it.
The door remained unfastened as the police had left it. Outside the wind howled through a dark night. The surface of the Grand Canal was like a miniature ocean. I could see no sign of any craft.
I confess that that second tunnel which led under the canal presented terrors from which I shrank.
Propping the great door open so that some dim light penetrated to the tomblike hall, I began to retrace my steps. Approaching me, a ghostly figure, I saw Nayland Smith groping his way by the aid of a tiny torch—none other than his lighter!
He was alone…
As we stood together on the steps, buffeted by that keen breeze, and still at the mercy of the enemy should we be attacked from the rear.
“Smith,” I said, for the thought was uppermost in my mind, “what became of her?”
“She had a second set of keys—God knows where she had found them—and was on her way to release us… I hadn’t the heart to arrest her.”
* * *
We stood there in the stormy night for three, four, five minutes, but no sort of craft was abroad.
“Nothing else to it,” snapped Smith. “We must go through the tunnel. To delay longer would be madness.”
“But the door at this end may be locked!”
“It is—but I have the key.”
“You got it from Ardatha?”
“Yes.”
“What of the padlock at the other end?”
“That is unfastened.”
“Which means—someone is expected to go out tonight?”
“Exactly. I leave the identity of that someone to your imagination.”
We groped across the clammy, echoing hall. With the key Ardatha had given him, Smith opened the door to that last gruesome tunnel. He locked it behind him.
“That was stipulated,” he explained drily. “It also protects us from the rear.”
We hurried as fast as we could through the foetid passage and up the steps at the end. The trap was open.
As we came out into that black and narrow lane which led to freedom:
“You must be worn to death, Smith,” I said.
“I confess to a certain weariness, Kerrigan. But since frankly I had accepted the fact that I must lose my identity and be transported to some point, selected by Doctor Fu-Manchu to carry out the duties of another life, this freedom is glorious! But remember: Rudolf Adlon!”
“He had an hour—”
“We have less… if we are to save him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
IN THE PALAZZO BRIONI
Colonel Correnti sprang up like a man who sees a ghost. Even the diplomatic poise of Sir George Herbert had deserted him. These were the small hours of the morning, but police headquarters hummed with the feverish activity of a hive disturbed.
“The good God be praised!” Correnti cried, and the points of his grey moustache seemed to quiver. “It is Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr Kerrigan!”
“Glad to see you, Smith,” said Sir George drily.
“Quick!” Smith looked from face to face. “The latest news of Adlon?”
The chief of police dropped back into his chair and extended his palms eloquently.
“Tragedy!”
“What? Tell me quickly!”
“He disappeared from the suite allotted to him at the palace—it has a private exit—some time during the night. No one can say when. It was certainly a love tryst—for Mr Kerrigan saw the appointment made. But, he has not returned!”
“He will never return,” said Nayland Smith grimly, “if we waste a moment. I want a party—at least twenty men.”
“You know where he is?” Sir George Herbert was the speaker.
The chief of police sprang up, his eyes mad with excitement.
“I know where he was!”
“But where? Tell me!”
“In a room in the Palazzo Brioni—”
“But Palazzo Brioni belongs to Mr Brownlow Wilton, the American!”
“No matter, Rudolf Adlon was there less than half an hour ago.”
As the necessary men were assembled Smith began to issue rapid orders. One party under a Carabinieri captain hurried off to the old stone boathouse. A second party proceeded to the water gate of the Palazzo Mori, a third covered both palaces from the land side. Ourselves, with the main party and the chief of police, set out for the Palazzo Brioni.”
It was not clear to me how Smith had determined that this was the scene of our recent horrible adventure, but:
“I counted my paces as I went—and returned—along the passage,” he explained. “There is no shadow of doubt. The room in which we saw Doctor Fu-Manchu and Rudolf Adlon is in the Palazzo Brioni…”
Against that keen breeze which shrieked eerily along the Grand Canal, the black police launch headed for the palace. As we slowed up against the water steps, no light showed anywhere; the great door was closed. Persistent ringing and knocking, however, presently resulted in a light springing up in the hallway.
When at last, preceded by the shooting of several bolts, the door opened, I saw a half-clad and very frightened manservant staring out.
“I represent the police,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “I must speak immediately to Mr James Brownlow Wilton. Be good enough to inform him.”
We all crowded into the hallway a beautiful old place in which I had glimpses of fine pictures, statuary and furniture, every item of which I recognised to be museum pieces. The man, pulling his dressing gown about him, stared pathetically from face to face.
“But, please, I don’t understand,” he said. He was Italian, but spoke fair English. “What is this? What has happened?”
In that dimly lighted hall as we stood about him, wind howling at the open door, I could well believe that his bewilderment was not assumed.
“First, who are you?” Smith demanded.
“I am the butler here, sir. My name is Paulo.”
“Mr Wilton is your employer?”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is he?”
“He left tonight, sir.”
“What! Left for where?”
“For his yacht Silver Heels in the lagoon.”
“But what of his guests?”
“They have all gone too.”
“You mean that the house is empty?”
“Except for myself and the staff, sir, yes.”
One of the party said urgently to the chief of police:
“Silver Heels has sailed.”
“Silver Heels must be overtaken!” snapped Smith. “Send someone to make the necessary arrangements. I leave it to you. But I must be one of the party.”
A man, following rapid instructions from Colonel Correnti, went doubling off.
Turning again to the frightened butler:
“How long have you worked here?”
“Only for two weeks, sir. I was engaged by Mr Wilton’s secretary. But I have worked here before for others who have leased the palace.”
“Lead the way to the tapestry room lighted by four iron candelabra.”
The man stared in almost a horrified manner., “That room, sir, is part of what is called the Old Palace. It has long been locked up. I have no key.”
“Nor to the room with the lotus floor?”
Nayland Smith was watching him keenly, his unshaven face very grim.
“The room with the lotus floor!” Paulo’s expression grew even more wild. “I have heard of it, sir, but it is also part of the Old Palace. I have never seen it. Those rooms have a very unpleasant reputation, you understand. No one would lease the palace if they knew of them. The doors have not been unlocked for twenty years.”
“Then one must be broken down. Do you know where they are?”
“I know of two.”
“Go ahead.”
As Paulo turned to obey I heard a sound of distant voices.
“What is that?” snapped Smith.
“Some of the other servants, sir, who have been aroused!”
Smith glanced at Colonel Correnti.
“Have this looked into, Colonel,” he said. “You, Paulo, lead on.”
Our party was broken up again, Smith, myself, the chief of police, Detective Stocco and two Carabinieri following the butler. He led us to a doorway set in an arched recess. A magnificent cabinet—a rare piece of violet lacquer—stood in front of the arch.
